Too Much
by Byronofsidius
Summary: In the aftermath of Daniel Ketch's slaughter of most of the Spirits of Vengeance around the world, Johnny Blaze takes up the duties of those that were most needed for their regions. In the Middle East, his endurance and faith are tested as he seeks another human host worthy of the duty.


He stood on the ridge, looking down through his binoculars at the ill-defined road below, a bandana wrapped about his face to keep the gritty sand from getting in his nose and mouth as the wind slapped about less than playfully. It wasn't an ideal set of environmental conditions for the job, but he was running on a schedule, and could ill afford to put it off anymore. This was the perfect day for the job, due to other circumstances. Protected from the elements by a dark yellow coat and matching wool trousers, the man kept three canteens on his belt, occasionally sipping water from them to keep himself hydrated in the desert heat and humidity.

A cloud of dust kicking up to the west along the road told him that the time was coming. His left hand left the binoculars, reaching into one of the pockets of his coat to procure the small black box with its single button. He pulled the antenna up and flicked a switch on the side to activate the transmitter, teeth grinding together in anticipation. He'd been careful to not be observed leaving the town that morning, before the sun rose over the horizon. He'd already been marked an outsider; he ill needed anybody taking note of his odd behavior.

Through the binoculars, he saw the truck come into view. "Five minutes," he muttered to himself, his gruff voice thickly accented. Patrick Shay hadn't been in his native Ireland for three years now, but he'd never lost his manner of speaking from the Emerald Isle. He'd come to Afghanistan to market his skills to any who would pay for them. He didn't care a tin shit about these people's ideology; their money was just as green and just as spendable as any he could make elsewhere. Here, however, there would be a lot less questions. Such had been the case several times already, and his swollen bank accounts could attest to the salability of his abilities.

His palms grew clammy, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. It always got like this in the closing moments before what he called 'The Splash', a kind of kinetic charge hanging in the air, growing with his excitement. The truck reached its mark, and he pressed the button with a grunt. The plastic explosives he'd rigged up below detonated, ripping the air with concussive force as flames and scraps of metal flew in all directions. The entire form of the pickup truck and its cap disappeared in the black and crimson flare. Patrick whooped like a spectator at a soccer match after a goal had been scored, jumping up and down as he put the antenna down and pocketed the transmitter.

"Hells yes, motherfuckers," he crowed, pumping his fist. "Off we are for another donnybrook, heh heh!" He wheeled about, letting the binoculars hang down on their strap around his neck, and began walking back towards his own truck, parked five hundred yards away from the cliff. From here he'd be heading north, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the scene of the crime. This was nothing like being back in the home country, where authorities had the manpower and technology to quickly track after him. Absent too was the sense that at any moment he'd be ambushed by inspectors. The Middle East was his playground.

When he was four hundred yards away from the truck, he heard a distant roar and drone, a familiar sound he closely associated with his last visit to the United States. At first, he just paused, trying to recognize the sound. He cast about visually, his sunglasses protecting him from the worst of the desert glare, and spotted another sand cloud far off and approaching. Was there someone from the clan of men he'd been hired by coming to eliminate him now that the job was done, a cleaner? He'd dealt with such before; ever ready, he reached into the back of his waistband and withdrew the Glock 9mm pistol he kept on his person, chambering the first round with a pull of the slide. He quickened his pace toward his truck.

When he was halfway back to his vehicle, Patrick gasped. He knew now what the sound was, the roar of a motorcycle engine. His surprise came not from this understanding, but from the speed with which the distant vehicle was coming. The dust cloud it kicked out was approaching at a speed that should have been impossible. When he was still a hundred yards away from his truck, he thought he could spot flames in the cloud, but shook this notion off as the heat of the day clouding his senses.

He managed a few more steps when he heard a voice calling out, a gravely, demonic bellow, "Patrick Shay! Stand, and be judged!" Patrick felt his legs grow weak, his knees wobbling. The motorcycle was now plainly visible, fifty yards away and bearing down on him fast. Flames encircled the wheels of the metal monstrosity, a low-slung machine with a ram's skull on front and skeletal-themed blackened chrome composing the vehicle. As it skidded sideways to a halt only ten yards away, its rider mesmerized him, the sight of him causing Patrick Shay to do something he hadn't done since he was two years old.

He pissed his pants.

As warmth ran down his legs, he stared gape-mouthed at the bestial operator of the otherworldly motorcycle. Dressed in tattered blue jeans and a black, charred leather jacket, the rider wore black leather gloves with spiked studs on the knuckles and wrists. His boots looked like they might fall apart at any moment, scorched from some unseen fire. A long chain was draped over his shoulder crosswise to his hip, then wrapped about his waist. Long metal spikes stood out on his shoulders like pauldron plates, and his head was a human skull wreathed in crackling red and orange flames, twin pinpricks of white light shining from his empty eye sockets.

"Comes to you the Spirit of Vengeance, charry man," growled the demon, thrusting one accusatory finger at the bomber. Patrick reflexively brought up the gun and fired three shots at the apparition, each bullet tearing a hole in his jacket. The holes regurgitated flames several inches from its body, but it otherwise didn't even flinch. It looked down at itself and shook its head. "Really? You see a flame-headed skeleton in motorcycle gear, and your first reaction is to shoot it? Not very wise, Patrick." It grabbed its chain, pulling it off like a whip, and flung it out at the human, smashing his hand. The gun dropped uselessly to the sand, and Patrick hollered at the flaring pain of his broken bones, holding his wrist with his other hand, cowering away from the Ghost Rider. "Were I you, I might use this time to reflect upon my sins."

"Get away from me," Patrick screamed, breaking for his truck. The Ghost Rider sighed, using his will to shorten his chain and hold it horizontally, turning to face the vehicle. The chain glowed white, and he yanked it with a grunt, sending dozens of sharpened links outward in an arc like bullets. The tires of the truck deflated, and several of the links tore through the engine and cab, glass shattering with a lovely tinkle. Patrick yelped and ducked down, covering his head with his hands. He turned, wide-eyed behind his shades, and stared at the Rider as the chain rematerialized in his hands.

"You are testing my patience, Patrick Shay, and I am hardly legendary for having a great deal of such," growled the Rider, whipping his chain back into place and stomping toward the human. The bomber fell to his knees, hands held up before him in supplication, groveling unintelligibly. "Ah, here we are. This is more what I'm used to."

"Please, I, I don't want to die out here! Don't kill me! God, please help me!"

"Ah, humanity's eternal refrain," the Rider snarled disdainfully, towering over him now, fists clenched at his sides. Up close, the smell of him was of burning flesh and hair, a horrid odor that almost caused Patrick to gag. "Pleading ignorance, begging for mercy. 'I don't understand, help me'," he said mockingly, eye sockets somehow narrowing to mimic human expression. "Pathetic." The Rider reached down with both gloved hands, hauling Shay up off of the ground, holding him close. He pulled Patrick's shades off and tossed them aside, pressing his flaming forehead against the human's, though the flames did not burn the man. The twin lights in his sockets flared bright, and the Rider growled, "Look into my eyes!"

Patrick Shay peered into the white lights, and saw himself as a young man, a teenager on the streets of Dublin. He saw himself with a gang of his friends, cornering a stray dog in an alley, rocks and clubs in hand, laughing maniacally as they prepared for their twisted bit of fun. Yet somehow his perspective changed, and the world was rendered now in black and white.

He had become the dog, and sheer horror and agony filled him as the humans began to pummel him without mercy, without any measure of sympathy or humanity. His body and soul burned, twitching, writhing, screaming as every pain or misery he'd ever willingly inflicted on another living, sentient being was visited upon his spirit. The Rider tossed him to the sand, watching as he curled into the fetal position, smoke streaming from his eyes as he groaned and cried.

The Spirit of Vengeance shrugged, dusted himself off. "Vengeance be served," he rasped, walking back to the Hellcycle. He mounted, revved the engine, and looked over at the ruined truck. He dismounted once more, approaching the human's vehicle. He removed his gloves, revealing pulsing blue flames wrapped around skeletal hands, which he pressed against the hood of the truck. The flames shot over the truck, repairing the damage he had done; without this transport, the human would surely die out here in the desert after recovering from the Penance Stare, and the Rider did not want that on his conscience. When the flames finished, they wrapped once again around his hands, which he covered with his gloves before returning to the Hellcycle again.

The Rider turned himself northwest, and took off, his duty done for the time being. There would be more to do in the coming days, and he needed his rest. Or rather, Johnny Blaze needed it. The roar of his engines ripped the air, and the Spirit of Vengeance left Patrick Shay in the shade of his truck to finish his punishment.


End file.
